The first link in the chain, whose fetters were to bind more than one
victim, had been forged. Link upon link; a heavy, despairing burden no
hand could lift; a burden which would have to be borne for the most part
in dread secrecy and silence.

Mirrable had exerted herself to good purpose, and Mirrable was capable
of it when occasion needed. Help had been procured from Calne, and on
the Friday evening several of the Hartledon servants arrived from the
town-house. "None but a young man would have put us to such a rout,"
quoth Mirrable, in her privileged freedom; "my lord and lady would have
sent a week's notice at least." But when Lord Hartledon arrived on the
Saturday evening with his guests, Mirrable was ready for them.

She stood at the entrance to receive them, in her black-silk gown and
lace cap, its broad white-satin strings falling on either side the bunch
of black ringlets that shaded her thin face. Who, to look at her quick,
sharp countenance, with its practical sense, her active frame, her ready
speech, her general capability, would believe her to be sister to that
silly, dreaming Mrs. Gum? But it was so. Lord Hartledon, kind, affable,
unaffected as ever was his brother Percival, shook hands with her
heartily in the eyes of his guests before he said a word of welcome to
them; and one of those guests, a remarkably broad woman, with a red face,
a wide snub nose, and a front of light flaxen hair, who had stepped into
the house leaning on her host's arm--having, in fact, taken it unasked,
and seemed to be assuming a great deal of authority--turned round to
stare at Mirrable, and screwed her little light eyes together for a
better view.

"Who is she, Hartledon?"